The Quilted Mountains

My interest in the Orient began, as with most young boys, in martial arts movies. The Orient is often depicted in movies as a solemn place, full of delicate beauty and inner peace. Other elements of the Far East were added to my knowledge as I took an interest in Anime, but that is for another chapter. I would say that the largest impression left on my mind was indebted to one of my all-time favourite movies "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon." In that movie I understood the Orient to really understand the need for peaceful contemplation, especially over a clear cup of green tea. Many beautiful and thoughtful moments within the film were held with purposeful patience in order to properly absorb each element. And the scenery filled my heart with a longing to run, walk and sit in that foreign wilderness. After experiencing this movie, I could never leave my desire for the Orient behind. Instead, I had to put this very desire to the fore and steer right towards it.


But here is the porcupine's quill in my tiger's paw: Seoul has none of this. I already wrote of the pollution. Then there are the flooded streets of an overpopulated megatropolis. Worse yet, instead of practicing peaceful contemplation, they mutually demand "Pali! Pali!" The Spanish "Rapido!" The English "Quicker! Faster! Hurry up!" But maybe worse of all, I have not seen one Korean savour one cup of tea! All of this left a scowl on my face. I felt betrayed by my childhood promises about the Orient. Surely they weren't idealized fantasies! Surely somewhere in this world I could find rest from the break-neck pace and pressure of this Age. Surely I didn't cross this ocean to find that such a land never existed. Now I'm not in utter despair here. As all good travelers know, what you are looking for might be found in the very next village. Or possibly the one after that.

Hey, lift up that droopy chin now! This story doesn't have a sad ending. Don't mistake me! What I will share next is not what I have always been seeking. However, it did brush against it, if only for a moment's moment. My traveling companions and I were told repeatedly of the beauty of one Sorak Mountain. It resides on the North East coast of South Korea, near Sokcho city. Word of mouth told us that its fairness must be seen in Autumn, when the numberless trees wear their most colourful garments. And with the help of one generous student, we made arrangements to visit Sorak during this season.

I do not have much to tell of Sokcho. To be frank, being there gave you the feeling that its popularity had gone out of fashion long ago. But that mattered little to me because I wasn't there for the city. I came for the Mountain. On our third day of being on the East Coast, we took a taxi to the base of Sorak. It was so busy that we had to stop the taxi and walk the last 2km by ourselves. This small walk already worried me. Just 2 days ago I was at our academy's annual sports day where Tyler and I ran until our legs gave way. The 2km walk sent painful jolts through several muscles. It was sinking in that I would not reach Sorak's summit. But that could be addressed. There was a gondola that ran up half the mountain and would let you summit it's first of three peaks. Not having the time or strength to press further, we acquiesced.

Wait. Stop. The sight I saw as I turned my neck to squint through the fog! I looked at the Mountain and was stricken. It was not its size, for there are many mountains in Canada that tower above it. It was in part its strange cut and peculiar silhouette. The trees looked so unique as they stood black on its rim. But to truly know its beauty, you have to stand on its shoulders. There more than anything, you will experience its vibrant colours. Cranberry red, soft living gold, rust, and copper. My words cannot capture their essence, but neither should they. They must be held in one's eye. They must be seen snared within each leaf, lit by the sun, swaying with the wind. They must be visited high up in the mountain where the air is elating, the heightened view allows you to peer like a god, and the mist reminds you that there is magic close by. Only after this can you know and echo my satisfaction. We have pictures, but nothing can capture what I have described properly.

Our bus ride home to Seoul was in the afternoon and I got to see all the autumn clad mountains I missed previously while traveling in the dark. During that ride home I remember being grateful to see the fragile beauty I hoped to find in the Orient when I was younger. Their mountains are not sheer and threatening like the Rockies. Their trees are not austere and rugged like the Canadian evergreens. Their trees are deciduous, delicate, and rich; blanketing gentle giants with their autumn patchwork quilt. Their mountains roll meekly but dip, rise, and layer in a most handsome manner. I could not keep my eyes off of them. Instead they started to slowly fade like a dream to me, becoming more scarce and scarce the closer I got to home. The peace of the Eastern Mountains I have left behind. But I can never forget them.